Mouth
by Becisvolatile
Summary: Lessons in lying...


_You gave me this_

_Made me give_

Molly was seventeen when Harry Marbigs talked her out of her homework and her knickers, respectively. First, he'd flattered her mind. Then, well, he'd flattered the other bits.

She never minded losing her virginity to Harry. He was fit enough. It wasn't like she was a simple girl, she knew what he was about and, if she was being honest with herself, at least he was putting in a bit of an effort. Priya Nusrat gave it up to Logan Farrar the week prior and all she'd gotten for her efforts was a glowing review on the wall in the boys' toilets.

At least Harry had waited at the bus stop with her, every afternoon for a whole week. It was the highest form of commitment she'd ever known from a man in her near two decades of existence.

They might have even made it to seeing a movie on the weekend, if she hadn't been hauled in front of the vice principal at school on suspicion of cheating. Turned out that the homework she'd shared with Harry for 'study notes' had been passed off as his. He might have gotten away with it too, if he hadn't been too lazy to take Molly's name out of the footer. Idiot.

Still, Molly wasn't too crushed. She walked away having learned two valuable lessons: one, never trust a boy who says he'll 'pull out' and, two, men are so lovely when they want something.

_Your silver grin _

_Still sticking it in_

At first, Sherlock Holmes introduced himself as Alain Barbier, an officer from Interpol's Belgium arm. She not only fell for it, she _lapped it up_. Would have worked too, had Anderson not slithered his way into the Morgue and kicked up a fuss. Sherlock had smiled up at her with all the charm of a schoolboy caught wagging school and all had been forgiven.

Not so for Anderson, who had called her a 'gullible bint' and sworn he'd 'have her job' for it.

Lesson three: sometimes liars are much nicer than people who tell the truth.

_Pollute my heart, drain_

The young girl at the Lancôme counter gushed so enthusiastically that Molly would have had to be a fool not to believe that Pale Petal was 'so totally' her colour.

Lesson four: Pale Petal was, in fact, _not_ Molly's colour.

_Your loaded smiles _

_Pretty just desserts_

Just quietly, Molly had rather liked Jim's underwear. It had always been so colourful, fashionable. The sort those buff lads wore on advertisements plastered across the back ends of buses. Not that Jim was buff, but he was fit enough, quick to smile and - at the time - she'd never have pegged him for a liar. The awful truth was, Jim simply never said anything interesting enough to be a lie. Surely if he was lying he'd have picked more interesting things to say?

Still, hurtful as it had been, Molly still walked away with another two lessons.

Five, the simpler the lie, the easier it was to believe. Six, never trust a man who has nicer knickers than you.

_All your mental armour drags me down_

The first time she saw it, she said nothing. It wasn't a lie, per se, so she could hardly make a song and dance about it. But the sadness was there, masked during brief moments of interaction, set aside in moments of brilliance (and he had so many).

She watched as he smiled that hollow smile and flipped up his collar, off on some grand adventure.

Lesson seven: a smile can be the bitterest of lies.

_You gave me this _

_Made me give_

Molly's done with the lessons.

Over the decades she's become a master in the subtle art of deceit and now, finally, something good may come of it.

"You've always counted."

_Lie._ Lesson two.

The smile is easy enough. Lesson seven. He actually believes what he's saying.

"It won't be easy, Molly. You'll need to lie. I know it's not what you-"

"I'll manage." _I'll excel._ Lesson three.

He gives a stiff nod and reclines on her work table. He seems nervous.

He should be.

Molly reaches for the small pliers and the pilfered dental blocks.

"Just to be clear on one thing. You know I'm not a dentist?"

He nods once.

"You know, for this to work, most of them need to come out?"

Another nod.

"I can work with the blood type and the dental records, but if there isn't a witness they might want to fall back on DNA and I can't fake that."

"There'll be a witness."

Fifteen minutes later the (questionably sourced) drugs have done their work.

Molly snaps on a glove and gives Sherlock a bracing smile. "Relax. None of my other patients have complained." _True._

_Nothing hurts like your mouth_

**A/N:** Songfic for letswritesherlock's Challenge Three, lyrics are excerpts from Bush's "Mouth" (Razorblade Suitcase, 1996).


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